


Flights of Fancy

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Drawing, Gen, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a good day for drawing, and Combeferre declared it so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flights of Fancy

There was a pause in the grinding sound of graphite as Combeferre turned to the man beside him. “I wish to thank you,” he said as he set aside his pencil. “Not many have lingered so long with me here, not even Enjolras.”

Jehan looked up from his work and smiled. “It is entirely my pleasure.”

They had been down by the pond engaged in silent illustration, Combeferre of the fauna gliding on the water, and Jehan of the sky. Not much could be said of that morning; the sky was clear, the light was good, the air was crisp. Combeferre thought to pronounce it a good day for drawing, then Jehan pulled him aside and asked if he could join.

The question was a surprise, but the company was welcome.

The pond was an anomaly, a piece of nature surrounded by cobblestones and buildings, a fissure saved by the sentiment of engineers who wished to retain "virginity". Combeferre was thankful for it; this place was his reprieve, and he welcomed those who joined him. He sat on a stool hidden from the pond by a mesh of leaves. Beside him, Jehan observed as he leaned forward at the first sign of fauna, his graphite stick dabbing in careful, measured strokes, his sketchbook settled comfortably on his lap. Before long, Combeferre had immersed in his work, and Jehan lay prone on the grass and sketched whatever object struck his eye. First it was the stool that Combeferre sat on, then the water, then the sky. His page was a maelstrom of objects that together made one thing: the pond.

An hour into their work, Jehan was wrestling with the thick, wild lines of a cloud when he said, “I lied”.

It was two words, spoken to no one in particular, and yet the gravity in his tone was enough to break Combeferre’s concentration. They faced each other, Jehan’s face mildly apologetic. “I did not come with you only because it was my pleasure.” His lip curled into a sheepish smile. “It was also my curiosity.”

Combeferre set aside his sketchbook and regarded him. “I had thought as much,” he replied, “but I also thought it harmless, if not amusing.” He returned the smile, and Jehan was comfortable enough to admit: “I was curious on what you did with the ducks.”

“Did you think I communed with them?”

The inquisitor bloomed with a blush, and Combeferre let out a chuckle. Jehan, however, was serious.

“Why not?” he bellowed as he made to stand. “Why would you not commune with ducks? Why not when you talk of carts that could move by coal –”

“Steam.”

“Or of floating baskets carried by the wind?”

Combeferre looked at him with increasing amusement. He could sense that Jehan was about to burst into inspired speech, if he had not already. “Prouvaire,” he coaxed. “First of all, they are balloons, not floating baskets.” Jehan huffed. “Second, I think I am not the only one among our friends who is prone to flights of fancy. You are as likely to commune with ducks as I am.”

The shade on Jehan’s cheeks deepened, and he conceded the point.

“So you do indeed draw,” he mumbled as he sat back on the grass, the feathers on his hat threatening to disengage. “But why draw at all? Why so accurately? And why ducks!”

They were questions that Combeferre had never thought to ponder over, and he marvelled at Jehan who asked them. He set his elbows on his knees and placed his chin where his fingers laced together. “I suppose I draw to rest my mind. There is comfort in reading, but when I wish to escape from words, I go here to draw.” It was not that he fully escaped words. Words were always branded on his eyelids, and he saw them when he closed his eyes. “I suppose I draw so accurately to reflect the truth. I am no artist, Prouvaire, certainly not your artist, but I illustrate that I may commit every detail to memory and that each detail be the truth. As for the ducks,” he shrugged, “it is their wings.”

“Do you wish to attach wings to your balloons?”

The notion was not entirely preposterous. It was likely that such a design appeared in Da Vinci’s notebooks, but in that moment, the mirth that had been building up in Combeferre since Jehan’s confession burst forth. He laughed, so heartily that his shoulder shook, that his stool almost collapsed, that his pencil flew from his hand. Jehan could only gape shamefully. Had the suggestion been foolish?

“No!” Combeferre managed to say. “Oh, no. Not for the balloons. Ducks fascinate me because they have wings yet do not always fly.” Combeferre paused for breath. “When they do fly, it is only to avoid the cold, but never during warm months.” He spotted a line of ducks, the mother guiding her children to their daily exercise. “To be gifted with graceful instruments and yet not use them,” his gaze slithered to the sky reflected on the water, “it is almost sad.”

Jehan regarded him, his distress transformed into something resembling sympathy. “You wish to surround yourself with sadness then,” to which Combeferre woke from his contemplation. “Not as much as you.”

The clouds began to darken, and they hurried to leave the pond. Jehan offered his morning's sketch, and Combeferre reluctantly received it. “For your moments of sadness,” he said as a goodbye.

Combeferre studied the piece, a far more spirited work than his in terms of scope and style. Under Jehan’s hand, the pond became alive; the clouds stirred, the water rippled, the grass swayed, and at the center of the foreground, there was himself. He was a mess of strokes and shading, but a glint of spectacles revealed the truth. Ankles crossed, shoulders relaxed and a contented gaze cast over the water — it was unmistakably him. “For your moments of sadness,” Combeferre recalled, and he knew that this was what he looked like when he was happy.


End file.
